Blog
by Nightingrave
Summary: After the Reichenbach fall, John Watson didn't upload a blog entry. But what if he did? (This was used for a creative writing assessment in English class. It had to be a letter/diary/blog entry so, naturally, I had to choose Sherlock.) NO JOHNLOCK!


**John Watson's blog entry after the Reichenbach fall.**

I'd never taken notice of how soon tragedy can strike. Not even a year ago, if you had told me that I'd be sharing a flat with an ego-centric man whose spectacular mind was ignorant of basic science, I probably would have laughed. And if you'd have told me that said man would treat me of my psychosomatic limp by dragging me around London city to show off at crime scenes, I would've suggested the nearest asylum as your new living space.

But, in saying that, Sherlock Holmes still became the greatest part of my life.

In only months, he baffled my mind more times than I'd ever care to mention. I mean, how could such a brilliant man have no knowledge of the Earth's journey around the sun yet be able to recognise and identify one of 243 different types of tobacco ash from a single spec of it? Nevertheless, he could do it. Even in his final moment, as he spoke those unforgettable words into my ear through the phone, as I stared up at his towering figure on the roof of the hospital, I still believed in Sherlock Holmes.

If only everyone else could feel the same, could see that Sherlock was a good man. A little eccentric and lacking in the social norms, but good – no, great – all the same. He once said that, yes, he might've been on the side of the angels, but we should never think for one second that he was one of them.

I'd beg to differ.

Sherlock saved countless lives. Not only mine, and not only those of the good, but he saved millions. Even with the constant lies being told by the media, even with the jeers of the very police force Sherlock placed his undying trust in (though he'd never admit that out loud), I still believed in Sherlock Holmes, and he still believed in himself.

When I met him, he was so fantastic – could tell a pilot by his left thumb and knew my sister was an alcoholic without even knowing her name – and he always knew just what to say to earn a rock-hard punch and a fresh new set of bruises on that smug face of his. And despite those flaws, never mind the hundreds of voices screaming their disbelief, he still became the most caring man I ever had the will to live with, even when the severed head ended up in our fridge.

" _Sherlock, there's a bloody head!"_

" _Just tea for me, thanks."_

The idea of Sherlock Holmes jumping off that roof, his demise met, was unthinkable. To the world, it didn't even matter. But to those who knew him, surely his ego was too large, and surely his brain was far too fantastic. None of us – not even me, I hate to say – ever anticipated that the great Sherlock Holmes…

 _Panic grips at me. I don't know what to think - does he have a plan? Does he expect me to try catch him? What do I do?!_

I refused to believe it. It must have been a silly magic trick, a funny little way of getting back at me for hiding his cigarette stash (somewhat cruel for a joke, but Sherlock was never one to appreciate or understand the emotions of other people).

I remember thinking to myself that if he managed to survive, then I'd kill him myself.

He didn't.

Sherlock Holmes is dead.

And it was all my fault.

" _Goodbye," he murmurs through the phone, desperate helplessness slipping through his lips like a final cry for help. The phone cuts off, and I'm left staring as he plunges from the roof of the hospital._

 _I can't help but yell, "SHERLOCK!" into the phone, even though he's dropped it. His arms and legs flail - it almost makes me think that he's flying. And I wish that he is. Maybe he really IS an angel, and his wings will spread out behind him as he takes to the sky, free of this world. Why can't he just be an angel?!_

I want to be able to scream at him. Say, "You should've told me, you utter, utter bastard!" Give or take a few swear words, of course, but it's not like I'll ever be able to say it. Never again will I get to see that brilliant mind at work, and I admit that I spent far too long being unappreciative of his extreme abilities.

What bothers me the most about it, however, is that I, even after living with him for so long, never noticed the difference. I should've known the media was taking it way too far. I should've noticed that the bullying from the police officers would eventually take its toll. I should've seen the change in Sherlock's demeanour – those subtle remarks of "I can't be bothered" and "I don't want to," the slightly larger, more exaggerated slump of his shoulders, the constant sighs. It was all there, and I missed every little bit of it. I was too busy being amazed by the words he spoke, the facts that just slipped out after spending only five seconds with a complete and total stranger.

I want him back. I _need_ him back. We all do. The world can't cope with Sherlock Holmes' body buried six feet under, and neither can I.

Sherlock, if you're reading this, if you miraculously survived even after I found no sign of a pulse, you need to get your arse back to Baker Street right now so I can kick it. Just come back. Whatever you think you needed to do, I don't care. I don't give a damn. I don't want to hear from your _brother_ after three weeks of grieving that you're still alive, that you lied because this is just another ridiculous case where you think lying will make everything better. No, I'm not a child that scraped their knee on the playground. A band-aid and a kiss won't make any of what you've done okay, so I need to know _right now_ if you're still alive.

And one more thing, Sherlock Holmes.

You should've told me, you utter, utter bastard.


End file.
